Squirrel P

Remember Frank as in The Frank Report? Frank who never quite got it together to be the journalistic sleuth he thought he was? Well, turns out I was wrong.

There I was yesterday when Mart comes flying right up to my face telling me Frank was back, and he had news. I reminded Mart his breath was never good close up, particularly in the mornings, and off we went in search of Frank who told Eddy who told Mart he would meet us on the steps of St Martins.

Sure enough, there he was keeping a low profile in the shadows. I asked if I could take a pic.

He said best not to under the circumstances, and I respected his wishes, till he turned around:

He told us he’d been working undercover. Deep undercover. Way undercover, with the squirrels.

Fuck me. No fucking way. Not only had Frank mastered the art of journalism, he had surpassed himself by infiltrating one of the hardest cells in London. He had earnt the trust of, and been entertained by, the highest level of the inner sanctum of the urban greys. Drank at the table of the squirrel controller no less. Fair play.

“There’s someone I want you to meet.” He said, under his breath doing what I suspected was a poor impression of Marlon Brando. Aside from the fact he wasn’t American, Frank had a lisp.

“Come this way, Brian.” He said, flinging his head like he was wearing a cloak, or a long wig, and off we flew. Frank looked nervous. You could tell by the random line he took up The Mall. After about five minutes, we got to Hyde Park.

After about thirty seconds, a short grey squirrel comes waddling over.

“Alright, Pete.” Said Frank.

Pete was clearly ruffled by the immediate blowing of his cover:

I blurred the picture to avoid any reprisals.

“They’re in training.” He said. “Every last one of them. All Squirrels have been put on special diets.”

Not all, I wanted to say, but thought better of it.

“Each and every on of us has been ordered to master the art.”

“Of what?” I said, as if I had to ask.

“Kung Fu, and those that can’t are being sent to camps. Special camps in places like Luton.”

“To do what?”

“Nothing. Just live in a camp.”

“Oh.”

“You need to act fast. There’s not time to be wasted.”

“He’s not kidding, Bri.” Said Frank. “I’ve seen them. Hundreds of them. Doing the Kung Fu moves chopping up cardboard pigeons. It was terrifying”

“Really?”

“I told you, Bri. I was on the inside. Earnt their trust. Said I’d always wanted to be a squirrel. Told them I hated the dirty pigeons. Rats with wings. That’s what I said. They’re all rats with wings. Dirty dirty rats with wings. Dirty dirty dirty…”

“What you going to do about it?” Said Pete.

“I’m thinking.” I said, and I was.

“Well?” Said Frank.

“I don’t really know.” I said, and I didn’t.

“You could ask Roy?”

“Who the fuck’s Roy?”

“Roy’s a dog.”

“What sort of dog?”

“I don’t know.”

“Big or small?”

“Medium, I think, but he’s a judo ace. Proper Judo king. Real master of the art. A pro. Studied it his whole life.”

Any idea if this has spread beyond your shores? It’s hard to imagine that it has, what with squirrels not being able to fly or swim great distances, but it seems that with the chunnel they might be able to communicate with continental squirrels.

Andrew Samtoy: Many thanks. I’m afraid it has though – the movement started in Namibia and rapidly spread to neighbouring countries, and those not so neighbouring including Sweden and the Ukraine.
Your pal
Bri